


Handle With Care

by anoncock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Kink Meme, M/M, PWP, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoncock/pseuds/anoncock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade likes fucking virgins; Sherlock's only too happy to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handle With Care

It’s a slow night at 221b. Lestrade’s popped in for some tiny thing (four beers tends to have that effect on his memory) only to find an unusually reserved Sherlock and no John. Sherlock tells him not to get too comfortable, so he does just that, sitting on the deliberately bumpy couch and nursing a deliberately lukewarm cup of tea – Sherlock’s idea of hospitality. Lestrade doesn’t know why he stays there for as long as he does, but it’s probably because he doesn’t have much to come home to anyway, and silent ( _is that a glance?_ ) brooding Sherlocks are better than loud, complaining ones.  
  
He starts to smile when he’s been glanced at for the third time – it’s fleeting, strangely demure, a little snatch of blue eyes under dark eyelashes, and it does terrible things to him.  
  
“You right?” he asks, amused. Sherlock just frowns at his laptop screen. Hunched in the chair like a great sulking bat, he is. Can’t be healthy. Lestrade waits. And waits. And waits.  
  
Eventually, his watch rolls over to ten o’clock and he gets up to leave – undrunk cup of tea now stone cold in his hands. The laptop snaps shut a second before Sherlock jerks up out of his chair.  
  
“Don’t go,” is all he says – from anyone else it would be an order, but right now… Oh, Lestrade thinks, still muzzy.  _Oh._  Well, then. He’s still holding the cup, a distant part of him realises, so he nudges some sheet music to one side and puts it on the table.  
  
“Are you sure?” It seems like the thing to ask. Everyone asks that, don’t they? _Are you sure?_ He thinks he might be a bit drunk for this. Sherlock, instead of throwing him a filthy glare like he normally would, casts his gaze down to the floor, teeth sliding over his bottom lip and chewing at it ever so delicately. ( _God help me._ )  
  
He nods.  
  
\--  
  
Sherlock’s skin feels like paper under his fingers, is his first, bewildered thought. He’s trying to carefully undo the man’s shirt, sliding his thumbs down either side of Sherlock’s ribcage when he’s finished. They’re less prominent now than they used to be, back when he and Sherlock first met. Then, they looked as if they belonged on some dead cow in Africa, rather than this a mad, brilliant man. He runs his fingers over goosebumps, pressing a small kiss to his collarbone. Sherlock breathes in sharply, but is silent.  
  
Lestrade takes his time undressing the both of them, drinking in the sight as Sherlock trembles in the dim, warm light. He’s not really sure if this is real for a moment, or if he should dare to touch this fragile thing in front of him.  
  
“Lestrade,” Sherlock says quietly, throat bobbing.  _Please._  
  
The spell breaks, and he steps forward, tugging the consultant in close, only faintly aware he’s murmuring, “Shhh, shhh, it’s alright, it’s okay…” The height difference is quickly tackled when Sherlock puts his head down on Lestrade’s shoulder, digging his sharp chin in with familiar petulance. “You never done this before?”  
  
He stiffens, inciting another round of mindless, soothing babble, before replying curtly, “No.”  
  
“That’s fine, I’ll be right gentle,” Lestrade promises, smoothing one hand down Sherlock’s flat stomach and lightly cupping his half-hard prick for a moment. (His own perks up a little at that, delicious heat curling in his stomach, as Sherlock lets out a stuttering breath.) “Get up on the bed and I’ll prep you, yeah?”  
  
There’s another stuttering breath when he slides a slicked finger around Sherlock’s pink, virgin hole, and a choked gasp as he ever so slowly works it in. God, but it’s tight. He has to stop, for a moment, both to allow Sherlock to adjust and to calm himself after imagining what it will feel like around his cock, all tight and slick and clenching…  
  
“Keep going,” Sherlock whispers, sounding terribly young and uncertain. He almost wonders about asking him again if he’s sure, but by merit of Sherlock being Sherlock he knows he’ll find out if he’s done something really wrong. It takes another few minutes of slow, careful stretching until he’s positioning himself, sliding his cock in the shallow curve of the pale arse in front of him. Sherlock actually whimpers, then lets out a throaty, low moan, arching into Lestrade – and if that’s not a bloody invitation he doesn’t know what is.

He eases in carefully –  _carefully, carefully, carefully, use cotton gloves, warning: rough handling may cause breakage_  – but stops when a thin, tense hand wraps around his upper arm.  
  
“I’m…” Sherlock exhales heavily, blue eyes wide and set on Lestrade’s own. It’s a moment before he lets go, muttering, “Go on.” Lestrade bends down to kiss him, edging in millimetre by millimetre as he runs his tongue over Sherlock’s teeth. (The kiss is more intimate than having his cock buried up the man’s arse, and he really doesn’t want to over examine that.)  
  
While he rests, he runs a gentle hand down the flat contours of Sherlock, tracing the fine smattering of chest hair and sweeping his thumb over muted pink nipples. He can’t help the warm thoughts, the  _so handsome_  and  _beautiful_  and  _gorgeous_  before he runs out of adjectives and just feels kind of stupidly happy. “You’re doing great,” he says softly, smiling. “You still okay?” A nod. “Almost there, you’re fine—”  _oh sweet merciful God in Heaven tighttighttight…_  “—you’re, ahh, you’re fantastic.” Pulling back out’s the hardest bit; Lestrade does his best to kiss away Sherlock’s pained grimace before lightly rolling his hips forward again and having to swallow a moan.  
  
Sherlock hisses when he thrusts in a little too enthusiastically, raking his nails down Lestrade’s back and pressing backwards into the bed. “Hurts.”  
  
“Sorry, going slower, that better?” Gradually, Sherlock relaxes again, and before long he’s clumsily thrusting back onto his cock (virtually in time, must be the musician in him), flushed a dark pink and moaning incomprehensibly. Lestrade, on his part, has been chanting sweet nothings for the past few minutes, pushing in harder and deeper, getting closer and closer to the spark of heat he just  _knows_  will tip him over, revelling in the tight, virgin—  
  
He must’ve grazed the sweet spot, because Sherlock lets out an almost feral yowl, and then snarls, “Oh, for God’s sakes,  _fuck me!_ ” He pounds a fist down hard on Lestrade’s back: nowhere  _near_  as romantic as the movies make it out to be. “Stop treating me like a virgin and—” He bites Lestrade’s hand when it settles over his mouth, but Lestrade clings on with grim determination, sighing. The brat.  _Fine._  
  
Grabbing Sherlock’s legs and yanking them up over his shoulders, the consultant looking gleefully fucking smug the whole while, Lestrade shifts briefly, digs his fingers into Sherlock’s hips, and slams his hips forward. From the guttural, relieved groan, he wagers his partner’s enjoying this almost as much as he currently is. It takes a moment, but Sherlock soon starts up his own little mantra:  
  
“Yes, yes, oh for the love of, could you go any slower, ohhh, yes, don’t make me beg, ah, please, please, keep going you idiot,  _ugh…_ ”

It’s not white flashes behind his eyelids and choruses of angels from on high, but Lestrade finishes a moment later, shuddering and feeling utterly wrung out – he really doesn’t want to think about how much being insulted turns him on; he’s depressed enough as it is. He pulls out before he can get too comfortable, and splays limply on the bed next to Sherlock, closing his eyes and letting himself drift. Too old, too drunk and too miserable for this, and yet… and yet.  
  
“Seven out of ten,” cuts boredly through his post-coital haze.  _Oh my God, are we_  scoring  _them now?_  he thinks, distantly horrified. “Implausible scenario, but relatively strong execution apart from one or two slips—”  
  
“Then you had to go fuck up the whole thing,” he retorts, digging the heels of both palms into his eyes and letting white spots bloom in the darkness.  
  
“It’s not my fault you’re too slow. I deducted another mark for making me finish myself off; poor form, Lestrade.”  
  
“Why do I shag you, again?” Sherlock paws at his shoulder like some demented cat; he supposes it’s meant to be reassuring.  _And why have you let me enact this scenario five times if you don’t like it?_  he bites back. Honestly, he’s too tired to hear Sherlock’s well thought out and incisive arguments. Never question the generosity of Holmeses is his motto.  
  
“Sleep off your alcohol,” Sherlock suggests, using the sheet to wipe the sticky remains of come off his stomach. He’s up and out of the bed before Lestrade can do much more than grunt his agreement. He tells himself he doesn’t mind, because he can’t, really. It’s Sherlock.  
  
\--  
  
That’s also the reason, when he feels the warm body curl in with him an hour later, he simply slides an arm around the man (who huffs but does nothing) and goes back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Kink Meme fill for the prompt:
> 
> Sherlock and Lestrade have a virginity kink, where sometimes they act out a hypothetical "first time" in which Lestrade is the experienced older man and Sherlock is the nervous virgin.


End file.
